Birthday
by kuro mirai
Summary: October 10. Naruto wonders, and the only one who could tell him would not say anything at all. One shot.


**Birthday**

**Kuro Mirai**

**Author's Notes:** I admit, I will never own Naruto. I wish I did, though. Birthday just kind of sneaked up on me. I couldn't NOT write it.

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><p>October 10.<p>

There was a festival. People were chatting amiably with other people. Some were drinking and laughing at one thing or another. Others were visiting the cemetery, wearing mourning clothes, flowers in their hands. Still, some others were preparing for a party all throughout the night.

The village was bustling with activity. Everything was bright; lights lined the streets, casting a heavy glow in the dark of the night. Decorations were put up in everywhere. He would bet that every house had one.

It was a festival – for the living as much as for the dead.

There were lighted candles in the cemetery. Food overflowed the tables in the houses. Everyone whispered and talked in an excited rush.

He lurked in the corners, staying inside the shadows. He watched the people pass him by, never giving him even the barest of glances. Today, he was wearing an orange shirt hidden by a black, worn jacket and dark blue shorts. His blond hair was hidden inside the hood, with little tufts peeking from underneath.

He would have walked out in the open. But he did not.

He remembered that during this time, when this particular festival would occur, people's stares were more heated. He had overheard someone about _looks that could kill_. If he had been able to put to words the stares he received back then, he would have said the same thing.

No one really tried to hurt him, physically. Apart from the occasional drunk. Or two. Or three. Well, he never really counted.

They would gather together and start _talking_. _Complaining. _

After the first three times he found himself in a not-so-welcome company, his instincts would work on overdrive and his feet would run away before his mouth does. The first time, he did not know any better. The second time, he was being stupid and his mouth opened before he could stop himself. By the third time it occurred, he was rendered practically helpless.

They said _third time's the charm._

It definitely was. He never let himself be captured again.

He did not want to feel pain. Neither did he want to feel helpless. While the wounds healed the following day, it was still painful to bear. So he hid.

The red line was his best hiding place. No one in the red line cared _for_ him. But neither did they care _about _him.

He didn't know why the ordinary citizens seem to hate him, or hold contempt for him, or plain ignore his existence. But in the red line, there was no distinction. They didn't care for him. They didn't welcome him. But he wasn't shunned. If he was hated, it wasn't because of anything he couldn't understand, but because of something he did. If they ignored him, it was because he was one of the red line's children, who were better off being ignored.

Perhaps, it was just as bad. But _they left him alone_, and that was enough for him.

The red line celebrated the festival too. There were a lot more people coming in and out of the brothels – ordinary citizens who seem to have taken the festival as a sign to truly let go. It meant that he wouldn't be able to hide in the brothels unless he wanted to get himself gutted if they were the ones who seem to hate him down to the very core of his being. Then again, they'd be too busy to figure out he was there. But it was safer not to go.

His best bet was to stick to the shadows. Or with the other children, who weren't too busy catching a mark.

He sighed. He would have gone to his apartment, but right now, there were a lot of people passing in and out of the streets that he'd rather not risk getting caught. Not when he's been doing well for the past few hours.

He walked towards one of the largest brothels in the district. It was red, and _flashy_, literally. He went through the alleys and entered through the back door. He started moving towards the kitchens when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

It was a _nee-san_.

Her eyes flashed with recognition. Her face didn't change. But she let go, and motioned towards the kitchen doors before moving forward.

There were only a few people working inside the kitchen. Everyone seemed to not mind him at all, and he stopped to sit in one of the chairs the _nee-san_ pointed him to before disappearing.

He would sit here and watched everyone work. Once or twice, one of the workers would order him to get something or the other. He'd comply and go back to his seat. Before long, the activity in the kitchen would start to rise and orders through the main doors would come in bulk. The workers would start getting more and more swamped.

One of the kitchen's cooks would gesture at him to stand up, and he would start working.

_Better make yourself useful kid, _they would say, before handing him an apron and pointing towards the sink.

He would start getting ingredients, trays, utensils, then cutting vegetables and other foods. Soon, he would be helping the cooks with preparing food for the guests.

He never went out though. They didn't allow him to go out of the kitchen doors.

When the clock would strike ten, the doors to the kitchen would open again.

An elderly man would walk in, followed by some guards. The old man would always have that look in his eyes. _Resignation_.

They always came from the back doors, just like he did. The old man would shift and the guards would disappear. They didn't go, not really. He could still feel them, he didn't know how, but their smell never left the kitchen, and something – their power? – would brush his senses just ever so slightly. But they would disappear.

The old man would take a seat in one of the chairs, his hand on a package in his lap. He would wait, and watch, just like he did.

When he finished one of the jobs the cooks gave him, he'll stop and wash his hands. Then he would make his way to the old man, wary inside, but never letting any discomfort pass through. He'd smile and enthusiastically say hello to the old man. The old man would laugh, but it never reached his eyes. He would seem so old, at that point, as if he could no longer bear the weight of living on his shoulders.

He would sit beside the old man and tilt his head, slightly questioning.

The old man would gesture to the package in his hand. _A gift for your birthday, _he would say. He'd take it carefully and look at the old man again waiting for a sign or something.

"Open it, Naruto." The old man nods to him. Naruto excitedly ripped open the package, and marveled at what laid inside.

It was a _kunai set_.

"Happy birthday Naruto. I hope that will help you when you start in the academy." The old man smiled and pats his head when he nods with a smile on his face. "I hope you had a nice birthday today." Then they talked about things, generally how his day had been, where he went, what pranks he did.

When the clock struck at quarter to midnight, the old man gestured that he needed to leave. Naruto nods before standing up. The old man stands up and says goodbye. He gives Naruto another birthday greeting before moving towards the doors.

He didn't know how, but his guards would suddenly appear beside him, as if they had always been there.

They would leave through the doors and out into the night, leaving Naruto to ponder on things, sitting on the chair

When the clock strikes twelve, the _mother_ would come in and look at him.

"Ah, did Hokage-sama leave already?"

"Yes."

"I see," There was a pause "How was your birthday?" She asks, looking amused, her eyes alight with laughter.

"I don't know." Naruto pauses before proceeding with his words carefully. "What's a birthday?" He would ask, genuinely confused.

The _mother_ would then laugh, high and shrilly, her hands gently patting his cheek. She would gesture for him to follow her, he would follow and she would put him in one of the small rooms for the _nee-sans. _

She would say _good night._

But she never answered him, nor would she ever, he suspected. But he asked every year anyway.

He'd go to sleep clutching his latest gift, and his last thoughts would always be, _I wonder_ _what a birthday is. _


End file.
